


Pay It Forward

by conflagrantThief



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Blood, Blood Kink, Bloodplay, Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, Cunnilingus, F/M, Fisting, Glove Kink, Hand & Finger Kink, Knifeplay, Mild Gore, Murder, No Idea Where This Falls As Far As Canon Timeline Goes, Non-Consensual Bondage, Oral Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Abuse, Sadism, Self-Harm, Standard Zsasz Warnings Probably, Torture, Vaginal Fisting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-13
Updated: 2017-08-13
Packaged: 2018-12-14 19:56:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11790345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/conflagrantThief/pseuds/conflagrantThief
Summary: Victor Zsasz is a man who appreciates baked goods and a certain measure of fearlessness. He stumbles upon a waitress who just happens to be perfectly happy to provide both of those things and more, though it takes her a while to realize exactly what she's getting herself into.[I just wanted some disturbingly kinky Zsasz that still stayed pretty firmly on the consensual side of things, if not necessarily the safe+healthy side. Then things got kind of out of control.]





	Pay It Forward

**Author's Note:**

> This first chapter is pretty tame, just setting everything up, but hopefully things’ll be getting weird within a chapter or two.

Tommy’s is a rundown little diner, right on the edge of what used to be Falcone’s territory. Small and shabby, it doesn’t look like much, but it had always been popular with the Falcone family’s lower levels. Victor’s never been inside, but he’s just finished a job and feeling famished, and it looks like the cleanest place still open on the block.

Inside it’s mostly empty, just a group of kids packed into a worn down booth and a few older men at the counter. There’s a table off to the side, out of the way of the rest of the diner’s patrons, and and Victor makes his way over to it. The vinyl cushioning the booth is slippery, the table slightly tacky from having just been wiped down; it seems like every other diner he’s ever been in, and for a moment he wonders at the reverence some of Falcone’s men had for the place. Nostalgia, probably.

It doesn’t take any time at all for a waitress to make her way over, a cute little thing with a cheery smile and dark hair tucked away in an old-fashioned updo. She manages to take his order without too much fuss, which is a pleasant change of pace.

Victor enjoys his job, and the notoriety that comes along with it, but there’s something oddly relaxing about being treated like just another customer at a diner. He chalks it up to the fact that the likelihood of coffee spilled all over his new coat decreases when the person pouring it isn’t shaking uncontrollably with fear.

The food is alright and the waitress stops by his table just often enough to be attentive, but not quite annoying. She keeps up a decent level of friendly chatter without asking too many questions or hovering too long. He admires her professionalism.

As she refills his mug for the third time, the waitress asks offhandedly, “Do you like pie?”

“I do.”

“Apple or cherry?”

That one requires some thought, but after a moment of thought he settles on, “Cherry.”

“Good choice!” She beams as if he’d just cleared the sky, then bustles off. He’s ready to brush it off as an odd bit of small talk, but then she’s back at his table, sliding a new plate in front of him. On it is a massive slice of pie, bright red cherry filling oozing from the sides.

“I didn’t order pie.”

“I know! But I made bank on tips today, figured I’d pay it forward.” Her words are accompanied by a grin and half a shrug, and she leans in a little as she continues, “Plus, you seem like the kind of guy who can appreciate a good pie.”

Victor isn’t a trusting person, but she’s not wrong.

He weighs his options quickly then, before she can leave, scoops up a forkful and holds it out to her.

“I’ll eat it if you take a bite.” She raises a brow quizzically, but seems fairly unruffled by his request.

“Sure.” Her response is accompanied by another little half-shrug and a quick glance over her shoulder, then she’s leaning forward to accept the forkful of pie. Her hand rests lightly on his wrist and her eyes flutter shut as her mouth closes around the bite. A little hum of pleasure escapes as she pulls away, her tongue darting out for just a second, and Victor realizes suddenly that she’s more than just a little cute.

Then she’s giggling and whirling off, leaving him alone with his pie.

It’s a damn good slice of pie.

* * *

Victor is familiar with the concept of ‘paying it forward,’ but it’s not the sort of thing he’s ever been inclined to think about extensively. He’s not obligated to pay anything forward, not obligated to do anything at all, but it still lingers along the edges of his thoughts.

It doesn’t help that the sight of full lips and thick, dark lashes keeps returning to him at frustratingly inappropriate moments. Like now, as he has his latest target on their knees and begging for mercy.

Mercy... he can’t let them go, wouldn’t want to even if he could, but he can make it quicker than he usually does. Would that count as ‘paying it forward’? He decides to give it a try.

He’s left feeling dissatisfied with such a quick kill, though, and the whole attempt feels pointless.

Whatever purpose ‘paying it forward’ may serve, Victor decides later, is completely wasted on him. Blood wells up from his latest tally, and the sight of it brings to mind the sweet-tart tang of cherries on his tongue and a sunny grin.

‘Paying it forward’ is no fun at all, but ‘paying back’ might be worth trying.

* * *

The spooky bald guy was back.

Ada hadn’t seen him come in, but there he was, sitting in the same booth as the week before.

The sight of him has her humming happily; compared to most people who came in with guns right out in the open, he was a damn delightful customer. Actually, he was pretty great even compared to customers who (probably) weren’t armed at all. Not very talkative, but not an asshole and he had tipped _well_ last time. Ada would take a good tip over a good conversation any day.

As glad as she is to see him, she's been very careful to _not_ think about the way he watched her after insisting she take a bite of his pie. It’s no good getting involved with customers, Rosie always says, and Ada isn’t interested in playing into strangers’ fetishes anyways. She does enough of that for her other job, and it's not like it was any less creepy when _this guy_ did it. It's not like she'd felt so warm under his dark gaze that she’d rushed off without another word, sure the burning of her cheeks was as clear as day. Ada's just... not interested in guys who are probably criminals and have what are probably really weird fetishes and also really intense bedroom eyes.

“Guy just came in, sitting on the far end by the window.” She reports, swinging behind the counter to grab a couple plates. “At least two guns, but I don’t think he’s here for trouble. He’s not trying to hide them, but not in a threatening way, more like a... wears-guns-like-he-wears-pants kinda way.”

“Like he wears pants?” Rosie doesn’t bother looking up from her crossword as she absorbs Ada’s words. It takes something heavy to turn Rosie away from her crossword; not even a loaded gun would always do the trick.

“Yeah. Kinda looks like a pro, he’s got one of those holster-thingies strapped on and the way he moves, looks like he’s pretty used to wearing it.”

“A pro, huh?” The steady tap-tapping of her pen on the formica countertop stutters, but doesn’t stop. “Be on your best behavior, then.”

“I always am, Rosie!”

Not strictly true, but... there’s nothing wrong with a lie when you already know no one’s going to believe it, right?

* * *

Her name is Ada. She’s been working at Tommy’s for about five years, she likes it when the weather’s gray and drizzly, and she’s either painfully cheerful or very good at faking it. Victor gathers up these little facts and a dozen more, storing them away like odds and ends in the junk drawer of his mind. It’s not difficult; she’ll take any opportunity to fill the quiet up with lighthearted prattle, though she never gets too personal and he never pushes her to.

He keeps coming back, but doesn’t realize it until she calls him a regular. By then there doesn’t seem to be much point in breaking the habit. So he likes coming to this same diner to sit at this same table. There’s nothing wrong with that. It’s just good food and a pretty face.

Summer, or the closest Gotham gets to it anyways, is coming and there’s tiny hints of it everywhere. The most interesting one, to Victor at least, is Ada’s change in uniform. Still all black ( _“Wearing white in this place is a fuckin’ disaster, Victor, I tried it once and never again!”_ ), but instead of the usual blouse, she’s wearing a short-sleeved tee. It clings nicely, the v-neck showing off her full bust in a way he definitely appreciates. 

It shows off something else, too, which he doesn’t notice until she’s setting his order down in front of him.

All that catches his eye at first is an irregularity and, without thinking, he grabs her arm before she can pull away. The noise that escapes her falls somewhere between a breathy gasp and a squeak, something that probably would have been immensely satisfying if he’d been listening. 

It’s a perfect crescent moon, just about the length of his thumb, formed from scar tissue paler and shinier than the skin surrounding it. Experimentally, Victor runs a fingertip along the curve of it, finds it smooth and taut under his callused skin. The touch sends a shiver through Ada, and he just barely holds back a smirk.

“How’d you get this?” He’s only mildly curious, it doesn’t look like the result of anything particularly violent, but her reaction piques his interest.

Green-gold eyes widen as she freezes, a deer caught in his headlights. It only lasts a moment, but it’s the first time he’s ever seen her uncomfortable. It’s a good look on her.

“I, uh... I don’t really remember,” is the response she forces out after a moment, and then she’s tugging her arm back. Victor lets her; he’s gotten more than enough to satisfy him tonight.

She’s got a scar along the inside of her elbow that she doesn’t like talking about and she’s terrible at lying. Two more facts for him to stash away.

**Author's Note:**

> I can't believe the first thing I'm actually publishing in five years is creepy Zsasz smut that's metastasized into a semi-real story.
> 
> Not everything in the tags is happening in-story right away, but all of it **will** occur eventually and there might be more added down the line.
> 
> Constructive criticism is always welcome.


End file.
